


for us

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: F/M, Fake Dating, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 22:58:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20433866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: When Adam Rapoport tells his two stars to play up their chemistry for more views, things get confusing. Now Brad is touching her bottom lip and giving her massages on camera and Claire's not sure what's real and what isn't.





	for us

**Author's Note:**

> standard rpf rules etc etc.

The reports, the research, the numbers don’t lie. Social media, marketing, and branding teams have highlighted the most watched videos, the most talked about videos across social platforms, and it all adds up to one thing: He’s got two people who are lightning in a bottle. And that lightning translates to merchandise, to ad revenue, to the kind of press you just can’t buy. 

There’s a reason the sign on his office door says _Adam Rapoport, Editor-in-Chief. _He’s the boss and he makes the tough calls. Those decisions have served him and the brand well so far. 

It doesn’t mean that this meeting isn’t still a little awkward.

“Listen, we’re thrilled with the work you two are doing. You know how important both of you are to Bon Appétit and the future of this company.” He leans back in his office chair and steeples his fingers beneath his chin, looking at both of his biggest stars. “I need you two to play this up.” He gestures between them, hoping that conveys what he means: that chemistry between them, that spark that makes viewers lean in.

Unsurprisingly, Brad is the first one to speak, giving Claire a second to process and think through what’s being asked of her. 

“Uh, play up _what_ exactly, boss man?”

“I want you two to...stir the pot a bit with fans. Give the impression there may be something going on between you in your personal lives.” 

“But there’s not!”

The emphatic, loud protest from Claire startles them both and she blushes, tucking her hair behind her ear, looking down. “There’s nothing going on,” she repeats, voice tight andcontrolled.

“But the fans don’t know that.” Adam leans backin his chair. 

“Listen, Rapo, I don’t think—“

“Adam, c’mon—“

He holds up a hand to halt their protests. Truthfully, he hadn’t been expecting them to accept the direction at face value anyway. Stubborn, the pair of them. 

“It’s not a request guys. I’m telling you, that’s the direction. I wanna see sparks in the next video.”

Claire leans forward, eyes flashing and primed for a fight, mouth already opening to keep fighting. And then Brad’s hand is reaching over and nudging her knee gently, stopping her. She shoots him a fierce look and Adam watches as they exchange some sort of wordless communication, a series of lifted eyebrows and frowns and eye flicks. 

Adam grins, satisfied. This is exactly what he’s talking about.

Whatever conversation they have seems to resolve and Brad nods at him while Claire stands, arms crossed over her chest. “We got it, boss. You can count on us.”

“I always can, Brad. Thanks, guys.”

He watches the pair of them go, Brad’s hand hovering low on the small of Claire’s back as he escorts her from his office, his tall frame towering over her. 

This may be the best decision he’s ever made.

____________

When they leave his office, Brad touches Claire’s elbow softly. “Hey, it’ll be fine, Claire. We’re practically an old married couple anyway, right?”

She grins back at him weakly and nods, watching him walk back down to the kitchen and disappearing around the corner, whistling and saying hello to the few staffers he sees in the hallway. 

She can’t believe he’s so unfazed, so at ease with the prospect of practically being _ordered_ to flirt, to mislead people into thinking they’re something they’re not.

She’s been harboring a crush for him that’s turned into something resembling infatuation and teetering dangerously towards what might be love for a while now and she knows it’s leaking out into their videos. It’s easy to see that she craves his attention, likes his validation and his dumb jokes and the easy way he handles her when she’s at her most stressed. 

For a while there, she thought that they’d tip naturally into something _more_. But they never quite made it, instead staying in limbo before tilting back into close friends—_best_ friends, even.

She’d put her feelings into a box, locked it down and taped it up, and moved on. 

And now Adam wants her to pop the lid off that box and let some of it all leak back out onto screen.

She is so fucking screwed.

It’s a facet of her personality she’s long stopped fighting, but she wants to sit down with Brad so they can plan out what, exactly, this new directive from Adam will entail. If she can get ahead of this thing, brace herself for his hands on her skin or innuendos muttered to her under his breath, she can keep her cool in front of the cameras. 

Except they literally have a shoot scheduled in about twenty minutes and if she doesn’t eat something soon, she will kill the next person she sees.

Priorities.

____________

After she scarfs down a salad, she heads down to the kitchen, butterflies erupting in her stomach uncomfortably. It feels like her first video all over again. In some ways, it is.

When she puts her apron on and Brad takes his place next to her at the counter, she feels herself relaxing (the way she always does when Brad leans down and teases her and makes her laugh) and forgetting all about talking to him about how they were supposed to make people think they’re dating.

It feels like it always does: Brad pulling her metaphorical pigtails and perfectly countering her type-A neuroses with an easy, goofy laugh. 

Brad, apparently, has his own ideas though. They’re sampling the Hot Pockets she’s supposed to be recreating, taking a giant bite from the freshly microwaved pastry monstrosity, and laughing about how burned to hell their mouths are and this is exactly why you shouldn’t trust microwaves, when he steps close and rolls his eyes affectionately at her.

“Hang on, Claire, you got something right there.”

Before she can think and process why he’s so close, the pad of his thumb is rubbing softly over her bottom lip, dragging up to the corner of her mouth. And then he’s gone, grinning at her and popping his thumb—the same one that was just touching her—into his mouth, sucking lightly. 

“Sauce,” he says by way of explanation. As if this is a _thing_ they do, as if touching this easily is par for the course. She can feel her cheeks reddening, can feel the way her heart pounds in her chest.

Because despite the fact that she knows he’s just doing it because their boss asked them to, despite the cameras rolling right beside them, all she wants right now is his hand back on her skin, his thumb stroking her mouth in preparation for a kiss she desperately needs. 

It’s too much. 

“I-I need five,” she says to Dan distractedly, dropping the Hot Pocket back onto the work surface. She carefully avoids Brad’s eyes as she steps back and away, trying to get her breathing under control as she heads for the hallway by the elevator banks. She just needs a second.

But the second she gets into the empty elevator bay, Brad is right behind her, brow furrowed and hands reaching for the curve of her elbow. 

She can’t get away from him and she can _still_ feel the rough pad of his thumb on her lip. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she turns to face him, bracing herself. 

“Sorry,” she apologizes on instinct. “I know this is a delayed shoot already, but—“

“What? Fuck the shoot,” he says, gruff and nonchalant as always. “I’m worried about you, Saffitz. You practically sprinted outta there. You training for another marathon I don’t know about?”

It’s a weak attempt at their normal banter and she gives it to him, rolls her eyes and shakes her head. 

“No, I just—“ She takes another breath and forces herself to meet his eyes. They’re perfectly blue and she can see every emotion on his face there. It’s one of the best things about Brad, there are so few questions. You get exactly what you see, heart on his sleeve and all. 

The distress must be evident on her face because he slouches, ensures their eyes are level, his hand hovering in between them, like he’s ready to reach out and steady both of them. 

“Claire, say the word and we march into Adam’s office and tell him to stuff it. I’ll back you up. Hell, half of the Internet will back you up if we ask ‘em to.”

That earns an embarrassed, self-effacing huff from her. She’s seen the numbers, been in the meetings, too. But some days it still doesn’t click there are millions of people watching her. 

Finally, she feels Brad’s fingertips graze her upper arm and it settles her, calms her, in a way that his thumb on her lip did just the opposite. 

She can do this. 

“I’m good,” she says, meeting his eyes full on. “Just hungry and Hot Pockets was _not_ what I wanted.”

He grins crookedly at her and winks—a skill she’s still working on. “Tell ya what, Saffitz, you kick Hot Pockets’ ass in one day, I’ll take you to Gio’s on my dime.”

“You might regret that,” she teases back, letting herself settle into their natural rhythm. This is fine. It’s _Brad._ It doesn’t have to be anything more than what they make of it. She can handle a little flirting. 

They head back into the kitchen, side by side, two of her strides for every one of his. 

She’s gonna kick Hot Pockets’ ass.

____________

Except it’s been three weeks of shooting and it is _not_ fine. Her nerves feel frayed and on edge and how she ever thought she could take the lid off her feelings in a controlled, managed way, she doesn’t know. 

Because it feels like Brad has been given permission to drive her to the brink of sanity with no relief in sight. She does _not_ kick Hot Pockets’ ass in one day and she spends four days—not that she’s bitter about it—working on perfecting savory, shortcrust style dough that never seems to get soggy. 

There’s no reprieve for her in her misery, though. Brad takes Adam’s directive to heart and he’s there every thirty minutes, leaning down over her shoulder and setting up shop on her left, the place where she’s started thinking of as Brad’s spot. 

But he’s got more than just suggestions on tweaking and refining the dough and filling—which are good suggestions, as they almost always are. This time, he’s got his hands in the dough right there with her, their fingers brushing amongst the shaggy flour and water mixture. While she works on kneading and rolling dough, Brad sculpts a heart out of dough and presents it to her with a boyish, charming grin that makes her blush. 

Especially when she sees that he’s scratched ‘B + C’ into the surface of the dough heart. 

He touches her, too. They’re so damn careful to not touch normally—well, _she’s_ careful to ensure they don’t touch—that every touch feels like a direct hit to her nerves. 

It’s the brush of his fingers across her back, dragging over her shoulder blades as he passes her in the kitchen. It’s his shoulder nudging hers as he jokes about her putting him to work since he has great dough hands.

(It’s mortifying enough that he brings that up, at all. But she bites her lip to stop herself from sighing at the sight of his hands working the dough. He really _does_ have great hands. Really, really great hands.)

It’s harder for her to touch him as easily, to let go and flirt and play it up without losing herself. She likes control and she never feels in control around him. Like one touch, one tease, too many and she’ll break.

But she finds a way. She keeps her touches safe, just brushes of her fingers on his shoulders and forearms. He seems to relish in the touch, gets energy every time she smiles at him and calls for him to come help her. 

Claire’s groans of frustration are like a beacon, beckoning him to her. He’s there almost immediately, just a little too close in her space, and it’s easy to step even closer so she’s pressed against his side, her shoulder pressed into his chest and abdomen. He’s warm and comforting and she can’t deny it: it actually makes her feel better, calms her mind and lets her focus on the problem at hand. 

But she’s still Claire Saffitz and Hot Pockets are wrapped up, perfect and delicious and better than anything found in a freezer, in four days. Dan and Jon congratulate her, cameras are switched off, and she’s dismissed back up to the offices. 

Just like that, it’s over. Brad is nowhere to be seen for once and she feels strange without him there at the end, like he’s supposed to be crossing the finish line holding her hand. 

She collapses at her temporary desk upstairs and groans at the number of emails waiting for her—endorsements, agents, interview requests, event invites, the list goes on. Part of her still can’t quite believe this is her life now. 

Claire feels on edge and she’s hungry and frustrated and feels untethered. Of course, this is when Brad swings by her desk, one of her gourmet Hot Pockets in hand. Without thought, he brushes her hair aside and squeezes the back of her neck and begins to massage her shoulders. 

“You’re pretty damn tense for someone who just made one of the best Hot Pockets on the surface of the planet.”

She can feel the groan of satisfaction bubbling up in the back of her throat. It feels so good to have him touching her like this, comforting her when she needs it.

But it hurts, too.

Because it’s not real, she has to remind herself.

She pushes him away, ducks out of reach of his hands. “Cut it out, Brad. There’s no cameras around you don’t have to pretend anymore.”

There’s a beat of silence and she glances up at him. He’s unnaturally still, the easy comforting grin sliding off his face and leaving behind a blank, emotionless, un-Bradlike expression.

“Right.” His voice sounds flat and devoid of personality. It sounds wrong. “Just for the cameras. Got it. I’ll just....go.”

Before she can tell him she’s sorry and she wants him to stay because he does make her feel better just by being there, he’s disappearing back down the hallway, shoulders hunched and hands stuffed in his pockets. 

_Fuck._

This was all a mistake. 

____________

It’s Carla and Chris and Molly who corner Brad and tell him that he’s gotta put Claire out of her misery. Hands on their hips, mouths downturned in a stern expression. He feels like he’s back at school, disappointing a group of his favorite teachers. 

“She’s in love with you, dude,” Molly says like it’s obvious to everyone. From the looks on all of their faces, maybe it is. But he missed that memo. And she made it _perfectly_ clear yesterday that whatever they’d been playing at for the last week was just for the cameras. 

Hands off. 

Brad scoffs. “No, no. It’s not like that. Adam told us to play it up. For the views or the viewers or some shit. She doesn’t—It’s not—What?”

Carla and Chris look at each other with resigned expressions like they can’t believe he’s being so obtuse. It’s an expression he’s familiar with. 

“Brad, honey, listen to me. That girl is head over heels for your dumb ass.”

He blinks at Carla and turns to Chris, struggling to process the words. “What?”

Chris nods and shrugs his shoulders. “We kinda thought you knew.”

“But she—“

“She doesn’t think you mean it, dummy.” He glares at Molly for that one. She looks abashed but meets his gaze head-on and raises an eyebrow, huffing and continuing. “Imagine you’re Claire—you know how she gets—and she’s got a thing, like, capital T _thing_ for you, and the only reason you start, y’know, touching her and flirting with her, is cause Adam told you to.”

He blinks at her, realization settling into his veins. “Oh, _shit…”_

His three friends look relieved and Carla hits him on the shoulder. “Now will you _please_ go put her out of her misery before she has an aneurysm?”

It’s a fucking revelation for him and he can’t process the fact that their fake dating has been real dating and they didn’t even know it.

He’s gotta talk to Claire.

____________

Claire’s not at her desk when he goes looking for her and suddenly he’s antsy and anxious as hell. The longer he doesn’t see her, the longer she keeps thinking that he’s not head-over-fucking-heels in love with her. 

He blows into the test kitchen like there’s a fire to be put out. If she’s not here, if she’s already left for the day, he doesn’t care, he’ll track her down to her apartment. He just needs to tell her that none of it, not even for a second, was fake for him. That he just touched her, talked to her, just _was_ with her the way he’s always wanted to. 

The _thud_ of a rolling pin catches his ear and he sees her tucked away in the corner of the kitchen, pounding out a disk of dough, head down and brow furrowed, mouth in a tight, tense line. She looks pissed off and the dough is taking the brunt of her feelings. 

Brad doesn’t give her time to protest when he takes the pin from her hands and pulls the plastic wrap over her dough. He’s desperate to explain, but he's not stupid. The dough needs their attention, too, or she’ll never forgive him. 

“Brad, what—“

“Just, come with me.”

“I’m in the middle of something here.”

“Two seconds, okay?”

He takes the huff that emits from her lips as agreement and complacency. Their fingers link together and he doesn’t let her when she tries to tug her hand away, eyes darting nervously around at the rest of the BA crew. 

(Later, he’ll talk to Carla, Chris, and Molly about subtlety, ignoring the way they’re huddled up in the corner with a bag of popcorn, watching their friends disappear into the walk-in.)

Once they’re in the walk-in, though, away from the prying eyes of the kitchen, words escape him. He wants to tell her how incredible he thinks he is, how smart and funny and beautiful. He wants to tell her that he struggles to not touch her every damn day he sees her and he thought he’d never be happy again after she announced she was leaving, that he wouldn’t see her every day.

He wants to tell her that every time she says she believes in him, that she needs him, that she leans on and relies on him, he feels like the most important man on the planet.

But words aren’t really his thing on the best of days and she’s staring at him, hands on her hips, eyebrow raised. 

“Looks, Brad, I was kind of in the middle of something, so—“

He does the only thing he can.

He kisses her.

She lets out a little _mmph_ against his mouth, hands raising up and just brushing against his chest as if she’s not sure if she wants to curl closer or push him away. She’s stiff in his arms and he can’t have that. He softens the kiss, cups her cheek with one hand and cards his other hand through her hair. 

Perhaps it’s the soft brush of his tongue against the seam of her mouth or the stroke of his thumb over the curve of her cheek, but she relaxes into the kiss with a groan. Her fingers finally curl into the front of his shirt, tugging him even closer, pushing up on her tiptoes to deepen the kiss. 

The first brush of their tongues is electric and he can feel the growl low in the back of his throat rumble through his chest as he hauls her up against him, licking into her mouth. His hands slip over her back and flirt with the waistband of her jeans.

When he breaks the kiss, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead and the tip of her nose, she blinks up at him, confused. She looks impossibly sexy this way: hair mussed and lips red and cheeks flushed, hands still curled limply into the front of his shirt. 

“But there’s no cameras in here.”

He laughs. “I know, Claire.”

“So that was....”

“That one was for us.”


End file.
